


So long since you've been missing

by caravanslost



Category: Football RPF
Genre: AU, Footy Ficathon, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-05
Updated: 2014-10-05
Packaged: 2018-02-19 23:33:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2406977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/caravanslost/pseuds/caravanslost
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>AU. Mats is a journalist. Benedikt is captain of Schalke. Mats conducts an interview and asks every question except for one - the only one he really wants to ask.</p>
<p>[This is a prompt fill for the Footy Ficathon.]</p>
            </blockquote>





	So long since you've been missing

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fill for the following prompt: "Mats Hummels as a journalist (because he said that would have been his alternative career choice). Bonus points if he does the sports section and interviews his long-time celebrity crush Benedikt Höwedes."
> 
> \--
> 
> AU. Mats is a journalist. Benedikt is captain of Schalke. Mats conducts an interview and asks every question except for one - the only one he really wants to ask.
> 
> \--
> 
> Disclaimer: I do not own Mats Hummels or Benedikt Höwedes, although I would very much like to.

Mats wished he had something to fiddle with, so that he could keep himself busy. He had run a hand through his hair so many times that he had dishevelled it beyond repair. He shifted about and fidgeted and thanked god that no one was around to see him in this state.

He needed something to fiddle with because he was sitting outside a meeting room in a hotel in Munich. It was Thursday afternoon, a few days out from the first Bundesliga match of the season between Schalke and Bayern, and waiting for him on the other side of that door for an interview was Benedikt Höwedes.

_Calm down._

_You are a professional_ , he reminded himself. He had reminded himself no less than ten times in as many minutes, but perhaps for the first time in his career as journalist, he remained unconvinced.

Someone emerged from the room – an older man with a harassed expression in a dark suit, holding a cell phone. Mats recognised him as Benedikt's manager.

“Hummels? Mr Höwedes will see you now.”

The man stepped aside and let Mats go through the rustic wooden doors.

Natural light streamed into the ornate room. An oak table to seat at least twenty people occupied the middle – and most – of the large space, and paintings of bland country scenes adorned the walls in golden frames that were far too grand for their contents.

The room was more opulent than Mats' typical working environment. His cubicle at the newspaper was small and always piled high with papers, no matter how often he tried to tidy it up. And his interviews were typically conducted after matches, on pitches, with bruised and muddied and bloodied players who were either broken or jubilant.

This setting, on the other hand, felt stiff. It felt too formal for his liking. The discomfort and anxiety Mats had felt waiting outside became amplified by ten-fold once he was inside the meeting room, and by ten-fold more once he heard the door click closed behind him.

At the farthest end of the room, near the floor-to-ceiling windows, was Benedikt Höwedes. He had stood up when Mats walked in, and he waited patiently as Mats crossed the floor to reach him.

Mats worried that he was overdressed, because he was in a suit and Benedikt was in sweatpants and a t-shirt. He worried that he was walking over too fast, or too slow. He worried that maybe he had dabbed on just a little bit too much cologne before leaving the office. He worried about every part of the coming interview that crossed his mind. He worried about the parts that didn't.

But when he got there, he shook Benedikt's hand firmly and greeted him with a clear “Hello.”

Mats might not have felt particularly brave, but he had become exceedingly good at faking it. Even if he felt like he hadswallowed sandpaper, and even if he was pretty sure that Benedikt would feel his heart beating through his hands.

“Mr Höwedes. I'm Mats Hummels. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me.”

“Please. Call me Bene.”

And all Mats could think to himself was _I already have. Remember?_

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_Mats was seventeen. He had never snuck out at night before, so he was filled with a terrible sense of guilt when he told his parents that he was spending the night at Nuri's house, knowing fully well that this was only half the truth._

_After careful reasoning, Mats and Nuri had decided that Nuri's parents would be less likely to check up on them in the middle of the night. In any case, Nuri's bedroom was on the ground floor of his house – it would be easier to leave and come back undetected._

_They snuck out to attend the birthday party of one of Nuri's friends. Mats wasn't sure that he wanted to go because he didn't think he would know anyone other than Nuri. He allowed himself to be dragged along anyway, because Nuri didn't understand the meaning of no._

_The house was large, affluent, and full of enough teenagers to indicate that nobody's parents were home. Nuri took him to the kitchen, found two bottles of beer, and slipped one into his hands. Mats didn't really consider himself much of a drinker, but he sipped at the bottle anyway to give his hands something to do._

_Nuri had waved to at least five different people in the short distance between the front door and the kitchen. Mats, on the other hand, didn't recognize a single face. Nuri did his best to keep close at first, but he was eventually pulled away by two boys and vowed that he would be back within five minutes. He left Mats in the kitchen._

_After twenty minutes, Nuri still had not returned._

_Mats made his way from one room full of strangers to the next, looking for Nuri without success. He then discreetly retreated into one of the emptier sitting rooms – because there were a few – and he sat down on a couch near the stereo speakers. Mats nursed his beer and occupied himself by debating whether or not he should kill Nuri when he returned. He sat alone for a long time._

_Mats was so lost in his thoughts that he only noticed someone had joined him on the couch when he felt his bottle being gingerly pulled out of his hands. He turned to his left, and the culprit was a boy with wavy dark blonde hair that fell into his eyes, and an easy smile._

“ _Your bottle's empty,” the stranger pointed out._

_Now that he had custody of the bottle, the stranger waved it gently in front of Mats as though to prove his point._

“ _So it is.” Mats conceded. The boy offered him a fresh bottle and he accepted it without question, grateful to have something with which to busy his hands, and someone with whom he could speak. “I hadn't noticed.”_

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

They shook hands, sat down. Benedikt reclined comfortably in his chair, whereas Mats sat stiffly in his own. It couldn't be helped.

“All good to record?” Mats asked.

“Of course.”

Mats pulled a recorder out of the inside pocket of his blazer and placed it onto the table between them. He pressed down a red button and began recording the conversation.

“So. Bene.” And Mats felt uncomfortable using such a familiar term, even though Benedikt himself had asked for it to be used. “Schalke has been drawn in the pool of death for this year's Champions League. A lot of people are skeptical about your chances of making it out of the group stage. How would you respond to your critics?”

Benedikt raised an eyebrow. He almost smiled, too, if Mats had seen correctly.

“Tough questions first, huh? Okay. I can work with that.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_The beer tasted foul. Mats didn't like beer very much, but he figured it would be rude to decline, and social suicide to admit it in the context of a party. He decided to keep his mouth shut, and took a hearty gulp._

“ _So – are you going around collecting everyone's empty bottles?”_

“ _No. Just yours.”_

_Mats wasn't sure what he had been expecting as an answer, but it certainly wasn't that. That felt a little too brief, and a little too honest. So he asked another question._

“ _To what do I owe the honour?”_

“ _You've been sitting by yourself for almost half an hour. You looked miserable. Someone had to intervene.”_

_Again, the answer was a little bit too honest, and Mats grimaced. He had convinced himself that he was doing a good job of seeming fine on his own – but apparently not. When Nuri returned from whatever in god's name he was doing, Mats resolved to definitely kill him._

“ _Christ. Did I really look that pitiful?”_

“ _Well, the good news is that you have company now, so it's no longer a problem.”_

_And the boy clinked the neck of his bottle to the neck of Mats'._

“ _Right. Well. I guess I owe you one.” Mats conceded._

“ _I'll keep that in mind._ I'm Benedikt, by the way.”

“ _I'm Mats.”_

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“You're now twenty-seven. You've come very far in a very short period of time. You're the youngest captain in the history of Schalke as a club. You're a regular fixture of the national team. You've made Fifa's World XI. Is this where you expected to be when you were younger?”

Mats always drafted his questions well in advance. His biggest fear was going into an interview unprepared. He had done so only once, in his first year as a journalist, when another writer had called in sick at the eleventh hour and Mats had been the only person free enough to replace him. All things considered, he had emerged from that job unscathed, and he had prepared a good article out of it as well. However, the memory of the dread he felt while driving to the interview had never quite left him.

But this interview was different, because Mats was asking several questions to which he already knew the answers.

Benedikt paused and thought carefully about the question. He paused a lot, and Mats had always liked that in an interview subject. It meant that the answers came out more measured and thoughtful. It made the articles easier to write – and it certainly made him feel more generous towards his subject at 2am on the morning before a deadline.

Not that further generosity would be necessary, in this case.

“Expectations are dangerous,” Benedikt eventually began, after a long while. “Especially in football. I had no expectations. I guess you could say that I had many hopes.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_Another beer later, their tongues were a little looser and their inhibitions a little weaker. By this point, they discovered that they had a lot of things in common – amongst them a terrible taste in television shows, a mild interest in politics, and most importantly, a devotion to anything and everything about football._

_Mats found himself thinking that this conversation was better than the ten next best conversations he had had in the last year, combined. The more they talked, the more common ground they discovered, and Mats was on the brink of thinking that this blonde-haired boy with the easy smile and the loud laugh was in fact perfect._

_Then Benedikt revealed that he supported Schalke, and Mats thought to himself – well, close enough._

_By this point, they had drained their beers and moved on to newer bottles. They talked about their plans after high school and beyond. Mats' ambitions were modest – he told Benedikt that he wanted complete a degree in journalism and work abroad in foreign newsrooms for a few years. He hadn't really thought about anything beyond that, but he suspected that he would eventually return to Germany._

_Benedikt, on the other hand, had loftier ambitions._

“ _I'm going to win the Ballon d'Or.”_

_And Mats wasn't sure whether he was kidding, serious, or tipsy._

“ _You think you're good enough to win the Ballon d'Or?” Mats asked._

“ _Can't hurt to try, right?”_

_Mats studied Benedikt's expression a little more carefully and concluded that although Benedikt was smiling, and although the tone of his voice was light, there was a spark of something genuine in his eyes._

“ _Okay, you win your Ballon d'Or. I'll win me a Pulitzer.”_

“ _Perfect,” declared Benedikt, clapping his hands together as if doing so settled the matter. “You can write about me winning the Ballon d'Or.”_

“ _That's hardly going to get me a second Pulitzer, is it?”_

“ _A second Pulitzer? What do you need a second Pulitzer for?”_

_And Mats suddenly felt ridiculous, because this was the sort of ambition that he daydreamed about only in his most self-indulgent moments, and one that he kept strictly to himself. He stopped short of admitting to Benedikt that he had already drafted something of an acceptance speech in his head. He still wasn't quite sure why he had made the admission to this practical stranger in the first place._

“ _So I'm ambitious. Sue me.”_

_Benedikt elbowed him lightly in the rib._

“ _No, you're greedy is what you are.”_

“ _So if they offered you a second Ballon d'Or, you'd turn it down on principle?”_

“ _Of course I wouldn't. But that's different.”_

“ _No, it isn't. In fact, I'm pretty sure it's the exact same thing.” Mats pointed out. “Unless you want to suggest that the Ballon d'Or is somehow superior to a Pulitzer. And if you do, Benedikt, we're going to have to take this outside.”_

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

“What do you think is the most important characteristic for a modern athlete to succeed?”

“I'm assuming you mean things other than god-given talent?”

“Of course.”

Benedikt answered without skipping a beat. “Ambition.”

“Why ambition?”

“Because there are gifted players who waste their talent, and average players who achieve incredible success. The difference between them is ambition. Ambition puts one foot forward after another when you're 85 minutes in a game and you're exhausted. You can't do without it.”

Mats listened intently and tried to refrain from smiling. It was an eloquent line, but he had no doubt that Benedikt had thought it up some time ago, and that he had been patiently waiting for the perfect opportunity to use it. Mats was happy to provide him with the right question, albeit accidentally. It made a refreshing change from the grunts and mono-syllabic answers that he normally encountered during his interviews.

“And how would you describe your own ambition?”

“I'm extremely ambitious, and I like to think that I'm highly driven. I hope that doesn't come off sounding as arrogant – but I know what I want. And when I want something, I go for it. I think that's very important. I don't ever want to be in a position where I'm left contemplating what could have happened. The worst questions in the world are those that begin with 'what if'.”

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

_Within an hour, Mats forgot all about Nuri. If anything, he was almost glad that Nuri had disappeared, because if he had stuck around, Benedikt would never have approached him. Happily for everyone, however, Nuri was a terrible friend._

_And maybe Mats was imagining things, but he could have sworn that Benedikt was flirting with him. It was not the kind of presumption that he made lightly._

_For one thing, Benedikt's gaze was utterly unwavering. The conversation between them was easy and natural, but Mats found himself looking away occasionally, breaking eye contact, to save his train of thought before he lost it._

_And he could swear that they were sitting closer together too, even though neither of them had consciously moved. Benedikt's thigh was pressed just-so against his own, just enough to make Mats distinctly and constantly of aware of the heat radiating off Benedikt's skin. The couch wasn't small, either. There was plenty of space there if they wanted to take it and put it between them, but they didn't._

_And Benedikt listened. Normally, Mats was the listener. Mats was everyone else's first port of call, the first recipient of news, the first shoulder to cry on. He listened a lot and he asked questions and then he listened some more, because he figured that was what people needed, and it was what he did best. He didn't mind, either. And yet here he was, answering question after question and talking freely to this complete stranger who paid attention to Mats like he was the only person in Germany._

_And he laughed a lot too. Mats considered himself no more or less funny than the next person, but Benedikt laughed like Mats had some god-given gift for comedy. Mats figured that Benedikt had a low threshold for humour. It was endearing in any case._

_They ventured outside after a while, because it was getting too loud inside the house. Someone had turned up the music volume and people flooded into their sitting area, to be near the speakers and to dance. They couldn't really hear themselves think, much less hear each other talk._

_Benedikt led Mats out the back door to the porch overlooking the garden, and they continued their conversation in the crisp evening air, the sound of the party behind them still loud, but not quite as obtrusive as it had been._

_Upon reflection, it had all happened very quickly._

_One second, Mats was talking. The next second, Benedikt kissed him_

_The second after that, Mats kissed him back._

_And fuck, Mats thought to himself, Benedikt was a good kisser. He kissed as well as he listened. He kissed better than he listened.  Benedikt kissed him l ike he had wanted to do so not for minutes, but for months._

_Mats was aware of nothing and everything. He didn't know the time, or where Nuri happened to be, or whether they had been noticed through the large windows by anyone inside the house. But he didn't care. He didn't care because his heart was somersaulting in his chest. Because Benedikt had stepped forward, leaned against him, pressed him back against the banister of the porch and slid a leg between his own. Because Benedikt's hands were on his hips, manoeuvring the ends of Mats' shirt out of his jeans with skilled ease – or perhaps practice_

_Benedikt wrapped his hands firmly around Mats' waist, and if Mats had been in any way confused about Benedikt's intentions beforehand, there was no room for confusion now._

_And then, as suddenly as he had started, Benedikt paused. He pulled his lips away just enough to be able to look Mats in the eye. Benedikt's lips were red, seemed swollen, and Mats figured that his own were probably the same._

“ _Upstairs?” Benedikt suggested._

_Mats nodded._

_He followed Benedikt up the stairs to the top floor of the house. The first two doors they tried were locked. The third was open._

_They stepped inside, and Mats only had a few seconds to register that it was a bathroom before Benedikt turned off the light, closed the door, locked it, and pressed him back against it._

_And in that darkness, there was freedom._

_Their lips found each other again. Mats pulled Benedikt's hips into his, felt hands at his belt, felt his belt being pulled off and cast onto the floor at their feet. He heard his zip going down, heard Benedikt curse as he struggled to undo the button._

_Mats remembered to breathe, but only just. His breaths came out short and shallow, and they stopped altogether when he felt Benedikt's palm slide beneath the elastic of his boxers, flat against his skin, and warm. His head felt light, and a sense of anticipation the likes of which he had never felt before flooded his body like a dam had broken inside him._

_Benedikt's lips moved to his ear, leaving them cheek to cheek in the darkness. His breathing came out as ragged and needy as Mats'. The sound of his anticipation sent something electric down Mats' spine._

“ _Still sure?” Benedikt whispered._

“ _Yes.”_

_Mats said it once. He could have said it twenty times. He would have said anything if it put Benedikt's hands back into motion._

_Benedikt's palm slid down into his boxers, curled tightly around him, and jerked him once. Mats arched into the touch so hard that he smacked his head back against the door._

_He swore. Benedikt laughed._

_With lips still pressed to Mats' ear, Benedikt said, “Feel free to return the favour.”_

_Mats' hands fumbled in the dark. He eventually found Bene dikt 's jeans and they were tented , and holy fuck , Mats thought to himself, h e's hard too. His hands fumbled and fumbled while Benedikts's hands worked over him like they had been there before. Like they did this for a living._

_Mats could barely think, much less concentrate, but eventually, Benedikt's jeans and boxers were down at his ankles. Mats touched him shyly at first, and then with more confidence when Benedikt moaned appreciatively into his neck. Mats didn't know what he was doing, but jesus christ, Benedikt did. He mirrored the action of his hands, touch for touch. Benedikt seemed to like it and Mats could have listened to those soft, aroused gasps for the rest of the night._

_They leaned against the door, cheek to cheek, the sound of their needy breaths drowning out the bass pumping through the floor beneath them. And Benedikt smelled like Old Spice and sweat and all Mats wanted to do was taste the alcohol off his lips again. Or maybe he just wanted to taste his lips._

_He wanted desperately to ask Benedikt to kiss him again. And it was ridiculous that he felt so shy to do it, because their jeans were at their ankles and they were seventeen and wasn't this what seventeen year olds were supposed to do?_

_But a rough hand-job was different from a kiss. A rough hand-job was the kind of thing that happened behind closed doors at these kinds of parties. A kiss, on the other hand, seemed too intimate._

_In the end, Mats' need trumped his reason, and he only asked because they were in the dark._

“ _Kiss me again.”_

_And without missing a beat, Benedikt caught Mats' bottom lip roughly between his own and bit down on it, his kiss as rough as his touch._

_They carried on for a little while longer and Benedikt came before him, burying his face in Mats' neck to muffle the cry that accompanied his release. Mats felt the sound echo into his bones and it amplified the fire in his belly a hundred-fold._

_But Mats hadn't come yet. Not yet. He felt like he was on the edge of a cliff, and Benedikt's hand had stopped, even though it was still curled as tightly around him as it had been before._

_Benedikt recovered and pressed a deep, lazy, lingering kiss into Mats' lips._

“ _Your turn.”_

_Before Mats could register what was going on, Benedikt sunk to his knees on the bathroom floor, took the tip of Mats' cock between his lips, and sucked like he was going to suck Mats dry._

_Mats cried out and banged his head back on the door for the second time that night._

_Benedikt laughed, let go. “They probably heard that downstairs.”_

“ _I don't give a fuck.” Mats replied, shuddering out the words and failing to keep his tone under control. “Keep going.”_

_Please please please keep going, he thought. But it would have been rude to beg aloud._

_And Benedikt did. First with his hands, roughly, and then with his warm, wet mouth. Benedikt must have done this before and Mats had to grip on the nearby cabinet to steady himself._

_He felt light-headed. Pleasure began rippling out to the rest of his body in slow waves, and those waves eventually surged together and finally tore through him, like a tsunami crashing on the shore. When he came, he came with such force that it was a miracle his legs didn't give way underneath him._

_He remained pressed against the door for a long while after had had come, his breathing rapid, beads of sweat forming at the back of his neck._

_Eventually, he reached for a towel, wiped off his hands, and pulled his pants up. He could hear Benedikt do the same. They both sunk to the ground and leaned back against the door. They sat next to each other in silence on the cold tiles, listening to the sound of their recovering breathing. For a long while, neither said a single thing._

_And then, Mats began wondering what to do. Would they exchange numbers? Would they walk back downstairs and have another drink and pretend like this never happened? Or would they walk back downstairs and be unable to look each other in the eye, and part?_

_A voice came through from outside, in the hallway._

“ _Mats? Mats? Are you up here?”_

_It was Nuri._

“ _Yeah, give me a sec.” He called back out._

_They both stood up, and this time, without asking, Mats pulled Benedikt to him and kissed him because it was easier than thinking of something to say. The way Benedikt kissed him back made Mats think that he felt much the same._

_With some difficulty, Mats pulled himself away. He washed his hands in the dark and left the bathroom._

_Nuri was outside waiting for him, leaning back against the wall on the opposite side of the corridor. He was intensely engrossed in doing something on his phone, but he looked up at Mats when he heard him emerge. Nuri began to speak, but only made it halfway through his sentence before he stopped._

“ _Are you ready to g — “_

_And Mats waited uncomfortably for Nuri to finish, but he didn't. So Mats answered him anyway._

“ _Yeah, I'm ready.”_

_Nuri looked from Mats, to the closed bathroom door, and back to Mats again. He furrowed his brow curiously and stood up._

“ _What were you doing in there?” He asked suspiciously._

“ _Going to the bathroom.”_

_They began walking down the corridor to reach the stairs. Mats wondered whether it had been that obvious._

“ _Hummels, I don't think I believe you.” Nuri replied, eyeing him cautiously. “Did you just —“_

“ _No.”_

“ _So if I was to_ go back upstairs and check that bathroom right now – I wouldn't find anyone?”

“ _Correct.” Mats replied, and before Nuri could get any ideas, he added, “but I'd appreciate it If you didn't go and check.”_

_And he hoped that was the end of it._

_Certainly, Nuri seemed to pick up the hint and didn't ask any more questions, for which Mats was grateful. They left the party unceremoniously and caught a night bus back to Nuri's house in silence. They snuck back into Nuri's room in silence. They crawled into their beds in silence._

_And Mats didn't sleep a wink that entire night._

*~*~*~*~*~*~*

The interview finished without a hitch, as Mats had suspected it would.

He asked all the questions he wanted to ask, and Benedikt had been such a gracious and talkative subject that Mats had even snuck in a few more that he had come up with on the spot. The conversation flowed lightly and easily and Benedikt had been very candid in all that he said. Mats was already drafting the article in his head.

He turned off his recorder, slipped it back into the inside pocket of his blazer, and they both stood up. Benedikt wished Mats good luck in writing the article. Mats wished Benedikt good luck for the upcoming game. They shook hands, exchanged goodbyes, and Mats moved to leave the room.

Each step he took towards the door felt a little heavier. He wanted to ask.

_But you can't, because you can't think of what to say. And you shouldn't, because you're here for work and he's here for work and you're a professional and so is he. And you wouldn't, because you're a coward._

So he didn't.

His hand had no sooner touched the door handle than Benedikt spoke from the other side of the room.

“Mats?”

Mats paused, heart racing. Maybe he was hearing things, but there was something distinctive about the tone with which Benedikt had spoken. Mats turned back to look at him, and he tried to erase all trace of hope from his face.

“Is that it?” Benedikt asked.

Mats' mouth felt dry, but he answered anyway.

“I got through all the questions that I — ”

“ — I'm not talking about work.”

Mats let go of the door handle, and put his hands in the pockets of his trousers because he wasn't sure what else to do with them. He was distinctly aware of the time, and aware of the fact that Benedikt's manager could swoop in at any point to usher in the next journalist. They had five minutes at most in which to have whatever conversation they were about to have.

“I wasn't sure if you'd remember.” Mats replied shortly. Quietly. It was as simple as that.

“Why wouldn't I remember? We weren't that drunk, Mats.”

Mats wanted to ask Benedikt whether _he_ would have asked, had he been in Mats' position. They had fooled around once and it had been incredible and Mats had spent the rest of that night in Nuri's room committing every detail of every sight, scent and touch to memory. He felt guilty for how often he thought back to their encounter, and he felt guiltier for how reflexively he compared every single one of his other partners to how Benedikt had made him feel in that dark bathroom.

They came up short, every single time.

Mats figured that Benedikt was too sensible, and far too successful, to dwell on that one encounter like he had. He had probably experienced a dozen more like it, and better. And he always figured that if Benedikt had forgotten – well, maybe he wouldn't appreciate a reminder.

“I don't know. I wasn't sure if the risk wasn't worth taking.”

“It was. Is.”

And Mats didn't know what Benedikt was implying, or how he ought to respond, so he didn't.

“It's nice to see you doing well.” Benedikt continued, walking over to Mats. “I still remember reading your name for the first time in the paper. I follow your work, you know. You're very good at what you do.”

Mats smiled modestly.

“You're not doing too shabbily yourself, Höwedes.”

“I manage.” Benedikt replied, shrugging off his success. “No Ballon d'Or, though. Yet.”

“And I have about as many Pulitzers as I did the last time we met. We can call it even.”

By now, Benedikt was near him. In front of him. Regarding him with that same look of hazel-eyed determination that Mats had encountered on the porch that night, after they had gone outside. And the effect it had on Mats was still the same.

“If I recall correctly, Mats — ” Benedikt continued, “you still owe me one.”

“For what?”

“For getting you another drink.”

“That was a long time ago.”

“Favours don't expire.”

“Well, what did you have in mind?”

And without hesitating – because _when I want something, I go for it_ , he had told Mats - Benedikt leaned in, kissed him, cupped his face, and Mats was seventeen all over again.

“Something like that.” Benedikt murmured, his lips brushing against Mats' with every word. “I remember you liked it when I kissed you.”

 


End file.
